


Athanasia

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Harry is a mama bear, Horcruxes, Inspired by The Originals (TV), M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg Harry, Prophecy, Seer Luna Lovegood, he just doesn’t know it yet😂😂, miracle baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “The birth of the Dark Lord’s child is approaching. Born on the fifth new moon, born to him who has twice conquered death. This child will have powers the light-side knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... The birth of the Dark Lord’s child is approaching.”*Harry made a mistake, a wonderful, stupid mistake that changed the course of his entire life.*(A\n) this story is loosely inspired by the originals! Where is all my Niklaus and Elijah stan’s at?!!
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 22
Kudos: 118
Collections: Anonymous





	Athanasia

_August 1, 1997_

Harry sat alone, watching his friends dance merrily. The sound of laughter and music filled the air along with squeals of young children. Usually, all these sounds would overwhelm Harry, he has never been one for social gatherings. Yet, he felt none of his usual social awkwardness. Harry was oddly content, there's a pleasant hum beneath his skin and thick fog clouding his mind. Like he's in a dream. Harry couldn't help but wonder if the twins spiked his drink, that would explain the warmth buzzing through him. The total lack of concern of the war. For once Harry doesn't care what Voldemort is doing. He isn't worried about the impending war, or the impossible task Dumbledore left him.

At this moment Harry was perfectly happy just existing while he still can.

He admired the iridescent fabric of Fleur's wedding dress, how the colors shift, and glitter with every twirl. He laughed at Ron's poor dancing skills, and sympathize with Hermione's feet.

"Odd, I thought you would have been out there with them."

Harry's eyes flickered over to the tall man next to him. He wasn't surprised, not really. Harry felt his presence before the man even spoke like the teen was sitting by a warm fireplace on a chilly winters day.

"What gave you that impression?" Harry fully turns to him, emerald green meeting depthless brown. He was handsome, unfairly so. His hair curled in a charming, gentlemanly way to the side of his head, a single curl touching his brow. Sharp jawline accompanied with aristocrat features, and pale skin complementing his dark eyes. He knows this person. Harry can't recall how, or when he could have possibly met someone this attractive. But the memory is there, scratching at the surface of his mind before getting lost in the fog.

A slow smile crept on the man's lips, equally parts charming as it was dangerous. "Presumption mostly, I always imagined you lived for these moments."

"I do," Harry easily agreed. "I just prefer to watch."

Harry glances back at Ron and Hermione, the pair finally found a rhythm. It wasn't perfect, but Harry doesn't doubt that Hermione can whip Ron in shape before the night is over.

Harry can feel the strangely familiar man studying him, the heat in his eyes burning Harry's skin. He's used to people ogling at him, he's used to always being observed like a zoo animal. But something about this man's gaze was hard to ignore, Harry is hyper-aware of him even as he watches his friends twirl around the dance floor. Harry feels like he should be wary of him, but Harry can't find it in himself to care. He was too at peace, too warm, and content to worry about the handsome man beside him.

Then Ron somehow manages to topple to the ground, causing Hermione, and an elderly couple dancing next to them to fall. Prompting a startled laugh to escape Harry's lips.

"Would you like to join them?" the man asks, dragging Harry's attention back to him.

Harry glances at the offered hand. His cheeks turning an embarrassing shade of red. "Oh, um... I can't dance." Harry blurts in a rather inelegant manner.

Honestly, he could kick himself.

The man's dark eyes twinkle in amusement. "That's quite alright, I can dance well enough for the both of us."

Harry's heart fluttered, somehow he doesn't doubt that. This man oozes perfection. Of course, he can dance, he could probably do just about anything he set his mind on.

"Well," Harry's hand hovers over his for a mere second before grasping the warm, lightly callous hand beneath his. Something sparks between them, something like electricity, something like magic. Leaving Harry completely breathless in its wake. "only if you don't mind joining me."

The man jerks Harry forward. His hand fluently resting at the center of Harry's back, The other cups his right hand, coaxing Harry into position easily.

They are just dancing, yet something about this felt oddly intimate. Harry can count each one of his lashes, he can see how the low lighting reflected off the man's eyes causing them to twinkle like burning stars, and feel his warm warm breath cascade across his skin.

Everything was warm. His skin, his breath, even Harry's insides felt entirely too warm. It wasn't a terrible feeling. It didn't hurt, but it was far from pleasant.

Before Harry can even fully process— the man moves. Entirely graceful with elegant steps, Harry's knees wobble as he follows along almost drunkenly. Was he drunk? Harry can't tell. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion, yet entirely too fast at the same time.

"It's alright Harry," the man whispers right into his ear, he presses the slighter teen a touch closer. Almost completely engulfing him in the man's larger frame. "Just follow my lead."

They're so close, Harry senses were overwhelmed with the man's woody aromatic fragrance. Almost completely distracting him from the one glaring flaw in the man's sentence.

He wasn't supposed to be Harry Potter right now, he was supposed to be Hermèsus Weasley. Ron estrange cousin. Harry's hair is bright red, unfamiliar freckles dusted across his cheeks, and eyes the same shade of blue the rest of the Weasley's share. The glamour feels uncomfortably on his skin, almost suffocating like he's wearing a thick layer of makeup.

"How did you..." Harry's voice trails off, unsure how to voice his question. He knows this man. He tries to recall how, yet whenever he grasps the memory it slips through his fingers.

The man studies Harry's features, so intently, it's like he could see through all the glamours spelled across his skin "It doesn't matter what face you wear Harry, I could recognize you anywhere."

It could have been his voice, or the way he looked at Harry... it might have even been the alcohol thrumming in his veins. Who knows. But a foreign feeling tugs on his lower abdomen and Harry stands on his tiptoes, pressing a light kiss on the man's lips before he could even stop himself.

The kiss was fleeting, ending as quickly as it began. Harry felt silly. It was unlike himself to go around kissing strangers, yet there was something about this nameless man that was so magnetic. He couldn't help himself. Harry shyly glances at the taller man, almost dreading his reaction.

But the man didn't seem angry or uncomfortable in the slightest. His expression was unreadable. Even so, somehow Harry knows he caught the man off guard. It's was like a gut feeling, a sixth sense of sorts. But he knows the man was bewildered, and not in a bad way either.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers suddenly, his voice taking on an urgent, flustered tone. "I shouldn't have done that."

The man glanced at Harry's lips. "No, you shouldn't have." He agreed easily, before leaning down and capturing Harry's lips again in a long sensational kiss. Almost instantly A fire lit underneath his skin, an all-consuming inferno. He has never wanted so much in his life, a need so powerful it leaves Harry trembling. The man’s thumb was throbbing at the hollow of Harry’s neck, rubbing up and down, pulsing warmth as his tongue conquered the depths of Harry’s mouth, hungry, consuming, pulling the-boy-who-lived into the warmth of him as if he mastered the balance of gravity.

Everything around them melted away, for a moment Harry forgot they are standing in the middle of a dance floor. At the risk of being spotted by any one of his friends.

Harry's hands wander into the man’s perfect hair, desperately tugging on the silky locks.

*

_He bent down, his lips against Harry’s cheek, brushing it lightly—and still that light touch sent shivers through his nerves, shivers that made Harry’s whole body tremble. ‘If you want me to stop, tell me now,’ he whispered. When Harry still said nothing, he brushed his mouth against the line of Harry jagged lightning bolt scar. ‘Or now.’ He traced the line of his cheekbone. ‘Or now.’ His lips were against the slighter teens._

_‘Or—’_

_But Harry had reached up and pulled him down to him, and the rest of his words were lost against Harry’s mouth. The truth was, Harry didn’t want him to stop. He wanted this man— this stranger, he wanted him so badly it aches._

_Harry briefly noticed A coolness drips across skin, magic melting off his glamours._

_The man pulls back, his dark eyes dilated to the point where Harry could see nothing but pools of blackness. He wonders what the man saw, what picture Harry made. Flushed skin, panting, draped across pastel pink bed sheets in Ginny’s room. Was it tantalizing? Disappointing? Did it send a thrill of excitement down his spine like it did Harry’s?_

_“Please.” He whines, high pitched and needy._

_Whatever control the man had left evaporates into thin air. He leans down, kissing, sucking at Harry’s skin in a way that seemed worshipful._

_“Harry, sweet, sweet Harry.” The man whispers. “Do you even realize what you're asking for? Who you're asking it from?_

_His words barely cut through the fog clouding Harry’s mind. “You don’t know, but you will soon enough.” Before Harry could think too deeply on his words, the man thrust, sending waves of pleasure through him, drowning out all other thoughts from his head._

*

Harry felt sick.

Death Eaters apparate into the tent by the dozen, filling everything corner until there was hardly any room left to move. Curses flung, horrified screams filled the air so unlike the peaceful atmosphere form before. Harry’s heart thumps wildly in his chest, eyes dart around, searching for Ron and Hermione. It was hard to find anyone in the sea of chaos. It was hard to focus on anything but the nightmarish scene in front of him.

This was all his fault.

Guilt knot so tightly in Harry’s stomach it made him queasy. He pushes his way through the crowd, his mind whirling.

What should he do? Stay and fight? Flee?

Harry knows what everyone would want him to do, but leaving without a word, abandoning everyone left a sour taste in his mouth. He just wants everyone to be safe.

From his partial view, Harry can see Tonks fighting a Death Eater. She shouldn’t have to do that. She shouldn’t be risking her and her unborn child’s life. A familiar scream caught Harry’s attention, his eyes quickly found Ginny being backed into a corner.

“Ginny!” He calls out to her. Everything seemed fuzzy, slow. He tried to reach her, he really— really tried to push through the crowd. But Remus grabbed hold of him, dragging him in the opposite direction.

“You need to go!”

From across the room, Harry’s eyes met a familiar pair of dark eyes. There was a hunting gleam of red in them, the color of wine, of freshly spilled blood. For a moment Harry did nothing but stare at the man as dawning horror blossoms in his chest.

He knows this man. He knows this man more deeply, more intimately than anyone in his entire life. His scar, his skin hums. Harry can practically taste the man’s dark magic from here.

How could he forget? What on earth was in his drink, how could he’d been so drunk he couldn’t even recognize Voldemort’s face? So intoxicated that he slept with his parent's murder not even an hour ago!

Voldemort looks older than his diary Horcrux. Taller, broader, with a more mature face, yet it was undoubtedly him.

"Ron! Ron!" He hears Hermione called, half sobbing as she grabs onto Harry where he and Remus are buffered by terrified guests: Harry seized her hand to make sure they weren't separated as a streak of light whizzed over their heads, whether a protective charm or something more sinister he did not know--

And then Ron was there. He caught hold of Hermione's free arm, and Harry felt her turn on the spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon him; all he could feel was Hermione's hand as he was squeezed through space and time, away from the Burrow, away from the descending Death Eaters, away... away from Voldemort himself...


End file.
